


Martinet

by linguamortua



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Caning, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Hux Gets Off On Interplanetary Economics, Hux-centric, Masturbation, Pro-Domme, Shame, Submission, Submissive Hux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There was a movement behind him, a soft rustle of fabric, and then came the first strike. She did not warn him first. Hux made a sharp sound through his teeth. The stinging, cruel line of the cane seared him across the thighs. His mouth fell open. Rational thought skittered away.</i>
</p><p>Based on a headcanon I sent to reserve: on one of the core worlds, there is an incredibly elegant woman in her 40s who will, for the appropriate fee, bend Hux over a table and cane him until he cries. He sends her a tasteful flower arrangement on her birthday. It's all very civilised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Martinet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



> This is for [reserve](http://reserve.tumblr.com), who writes fantastic Kylux and whose call for smutty headcanons made me put my personal 'Hux getting caned' notion out into the world.

Sorah Shan’s apartments were light and airy, a welcome relief from the brutal, humid heat of Brentaal IV. Brentaal IV was a business-oriented planet, all phallic skyscrapers in glass and chrome. Bustle and noise and a sort of restrained, corporate braggadocio pervaded the public spaces. Hux had come down in a small shuttle from the _Finalizer_ , while other personnel were enjoying a brief shore leave on a neighbouring planet. Stepping inside Sorah’s delicately-appointed rooms was like visiting some uniquely feminine world, galaxies away from the steel-and-black of a First Order ship.

Sorah was, unofficially, perhaps the most powerful woman on the planet, and her living space reflected that. Everything was luxurious but tasteful, decorated and furnished with the refined selections of a woman in her prime who knew what she liked. Thin, pale curtains rippled in what little breeze there was. Delicate ornaments inhabited shelves; tables had curved, elegant legs. There was the sound of running water. It was very slightly intimidating. It was supposed to be. Hux stifled a sigh of relief as he entered and hung his jacket on the usual hook. The stiff, black cloth was misery in the summer, and might be recognised besides, but it was part of his ritual and so he endured.

As he smoothed down his shirt and hair in the mirror, Sorah swept towards him, her filmy, layered robes rippling like the sea in shades of blue and green. She barely reached his shoulder, but her presence was vast. Her dark hair was curled into a precarious tower, with one long lock falling down the side of her neck. The disarray was no accident. Since Hux had first started visiting her, she had acquired wings of grey at her temples and creases at the corners of her eyes, and yet she made no attempt to hide her middle age. Her cheekbones were high and aristocratic, her mouth a perfect, sculpted bow. She did not walk, she glided.

Men did not come to her for her beauty alone, although she was compelling.

‘Lady Shan,’ said Hux formally, and gave her a little bow. She kissed him on each cheek with a smile, her small hands on his jaw. He leaned down to her; he would not make her stretch up to him.

‘My dear Brendol,’ she said, with a warmth that Hux was sure was only partly feigned. She smelled like something spicy and earthy, like a good brandy.

Her delicacy and tact were unparalleled, and so Hux hardly knew how they got from standing at the door to the private study where their meetings were held. Impressions were all he ever had; of her perfume, of a divine statue by a notable sculptor, of the smell of fresh flowers. Pale, creamy marble and gold fittings and the occasional burst of colour. His mind was already elsewhere. As they entered, Sorah’s languid posture dropped away. She slid into her role, and Hux into his; roles they had established almost ten years ago, and had taken up at semi-regular intervals ever since. When Hux’s duties allowed, and when his needs required.

‘Put yourself over the desk,’ she said, crisply, and she turned away to the cupboard to fetch the cane. Hux unfastened his belt with suddenly-shaking hands, regressing, his self-confidence falling away like cracked pieces of shell.

 

* * *

 

‘It is very important,’ a much younger Hux had said all those years ago, as he sat rigid on the very edge of his chair, ‘very important that you not allow me-’ he swallowed hard, ‘that I not be permitted-’

‘To climax?’ the woman finished smoothly, and Hux nodded.

‘Exactly so,’ he said.

‘That's not an uncommon request. I can oblige you. Have you considered the implement?’

Hux had not. He had considered very little about this visit, except his own desperate need for it. He had been lucky that she had even deigned to meet with him. Sorah Shan was - well, she was an enigma. She referred to herself, anachronistically, as a _courtesan_. Other people had less savoury names for it. She also owned half the planet, if Hux’s research was anything to go by. A politician, although she had never held office. She had a four-year waiting list for new clients. Applications were made through her assistant, if one was fortunate enough to get that far. Hardly anyone would be seen personally. The screening process was more rigorous and intrusive than any that Hux had endured for the military and yet, here he was, a handful of months after sending in the file full of information.

‘I,’ said Hux, swallowing hard as trepidation rushed over him. The high, starched neck of his new captain’s jacket felt very constricting. Sorah leaned forward and placed a delicate, beringed hand on his knee.

‘Brendol,’ she said, soothingly. Her voice was low and intimate - she was favouring him with a secret. Hux grew warm from it. ‘Dear boy. I am never obliged to spend my time with anyone I find disagreeable. You are here at my invitation.’

‘I don't know,’ he said eventually, feeling desperately _incorrect_ , as if confessing to not wanting a beautiful woman to make him come was the most perverse thing of all - more perverse, even, than paying for it. He wet his lips with his tongue.

‘We shall try a number of possibilities, then,’ said Sorah. She leaned back in her seat in a fluid motion, and crossed one leg over the other. Her feet were very small, and clad in tiny, silver slippers.

‘This isn’t-’ Hux began. _This isn’t strange, is it? I’m not abnormal - a deviant? My father would never have allowed it, when he was alive. He’d have found out. That there was something wrong with me_. He couldn’t make himself say the words.

‘There are many ways to crave release,’ said Sorah, anticipating him. ‘They are all important, in their own way.’ Hux took a deep, gulping breath.

‘Thank you,’ he said. Sorah smiled at him like a benevolent cat.

‘Shall we move next door?’ she asked. Despite her finesse, Hux knew an order when he heard one, and he rose as if pulled by strings and followed her into her study. His pulse hammered in his throat at the sight of the heavy wooden desk, the towering shelves. The data screens and the matching furniture were somehow feminine in their aspect, and although it did not have the bright, airy quality of the rest of her home it was not dark. Authority resided here: he could almost taste it in the air. The chair was comfortable but supportive for long sessions at the desk. Hux knew, without being told, that this was where Sorah ran her empire. Power had seeped into every piece of furniture. It was the perfect place. How had she known?

A carved cabinet in the corner held an impressive array of implements for corporal punishment. Hux had a hazy notion that the flat of a hand would suffice, but the more impersonal, the better. He said as much, and Sorah inclined her head in graceful acknowledgement, and then suggested he disrobe below the waist and rest his forearms on the table. Hux blushed from his chest upwards, but he obeyed. She made it remarkably easy to obey.

First, they tried a heavy flogger, but the dull, jarring strikes were more tedious than erotic. A belt, doubled over, served better, although it gave Hux a sudden, nauseous recollection of his father. None of it was _enough_. He squirmed against the desk, hyper-aware of his partial nudity and achingly, agonisingly teetering on the brink of what he wanted. Sorah noticed his restlessness and stopped.

‘Perhaps something more challenging,’ she suggested in her silky voice. There was a movement behind him, a soft rustle of fabric, and then came the first strike. She did not warn him first. Hux made a sharp sound through his teeth. The stinging, cruel line of the cane seared him across the thighs. His mouth fell open. Rational thought skittered away.

 

* * *

 

The efficacy of Sorah’s well-used rattan cane had not waned in the intervening years. If anything, visiting her two or three times a year had served only to make the anticipation sweeter, and the payoff more satisfying. Hux would not allow himself to contemplate why he needed her attentions more with every step up the ladder he took in his career. The notion that being brought to tears was necessary to his mental wellbeing was uncomfortable; it existed in an uneasy truce with his sense of self.

Still, bending over the sturdy desk in her study with his pressed trousers folded down to his knees - that felt like a homecoming every time. He never forgot how to arrange himself. Hands flat and symmetrical on the desk, left cheek pressed to the wood. His feet placed an even hip width apart. Sometimes a caning aroused him, sometimes not, but he had to lift himself up onto the balls of his feet and arch his back so that he wasn’t pressing his cock against the desk. That was forbidden. Even ten minutes in that strained pose made him burn. Half an hour of precarious balance could almost make him cry on its own.

Sorah was merciless with him. If he moved out of position even a fraction of an inch, she would place the cane on the desk and walk away, to peruse a book or file her nails. Obedience was not easy. There was a fine line between wanting to prolong the intense, agonising sweetness, and pushing the limits of his body to stay still. Sorah liked to test those limits. A minute posture correction here and there, touching him only with the tip of the cane to direct him.

Hux was an attentive boy today. He positioned himself, offering himself up to her, and braced his hands against the desk. He closed his eyes.

‘Very good, Brendol,’ Sorah murmured, the use of his first name, as always, both humiliatingly reminiscent of childhood punishments and deeply, intimately erotic. He cried out from the very first stroke, a stinging swipe across the back of his thighs. It was a vicious way to begin. By the third stroke he was hard. Sorah took her time, waiting just long enough in between blows that Hux quivered with nervous tension. She spoke very little. The occasional question or comment, probing and carefully calculated.

He broke quickly.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, Sorah withdrew, and Hux buttoned up his jodhpurs and smoothed his shirt. There was a bathroom next door - a real one, with hot running water and fragrant soap and soft towels. It was for clients, lavish but impersonal. Hux washed his hands and face with a small blue soap that looked like a coiled shell. Then he pressed lightly on his closed eyes with a washcloth soaked in cool water. He combed his hair. A few long, deep breaths from his diaphragm followed, and he rolled his shoulders back, working out the kinks. His erection subsided slowly. He would deal with it later. When he opened his eyes again and looked in the mirror, General Hux stared back at him.

Their private tradition demanded that Hux take a glass of something alcoholic and fortifying with Sorah before he left. In the winter, it was cognac or mulled wine. Today, she handed him a crystal glass filled with fruit and a clear liqueur of some kind. It exploded with sweetness on his tongue. He sat by Sorah on her divan, lowering himself down delicately.

‘Shocking about the Corellian ambassador, don't you think?’ she said, as if ten minutes ago she hadn't been watching him sob wetly on her desk with his bare backside exposed and his cock hard.

‘Insider trading, wasn't it?’

‘Mm. The inquest implicated the envoy from Coruscant in some rather nasty rumours about slavery.’

‘Corellian credits are already down nine percent against the Brendaalian pound,’ said Hux. ‘It’ll be fifteen by the end of the week - the envoy’s got interests in the Corellian Planetary Fund via a shell company.’

‘Really,’ breathed Sorah, suddenly very interested. ‘I’d be thrilled to learn your source, Brendol.’ She couldn’t suppress the way she leaned forward just a fraction, hooked. Sorah adored political intrigue, and she had ample access to all sorts of information through her client base. Hux expounded, and the last few minutes of their session were wholly taken up by the economic machinations of the most powerful men in the sector.

When a delicate clock chimed the hour in silvery tones, Hux did not need to be prompted. He set down his empty glass and stood. Sorah rose with him, and rested her hand on his arm as he walked to the door.

‘Such a pleasure to see you,’ he said, and she favoured him with a gracious smile.

‘I always look forward to your visits,’ Sorah countered. ‘It's so hard to find people with a good grasp of interplanetary economics.’ She brushed her lips over his cheek and Hux felt a boyish rush of happiness at her compliment.

He had a real spring in his step as he walked down the stairs and into the building's lobby. Sorah had been perfection today. He had struggled to maintain his composure, and she had tactfully presented him with a topic of conversation that drew out his most adept observations - the very subject on which he had written his academy dissertation. He sighed beatifically into the hot, damp hair as he waved down a private speeder to return him to his shuttle. It was her birthday soon. Perhaps he would forgo the usual flower arrangement and order her one of those exquisite glass birds they made on Ganthel.

 

* * *

 

‘Where the hell have you been?’ said Ren, falling into heavy step alongside Hux. The corridors of the  _Finalizer_ were almost empty. Nobody passed up a chance to get their boots on a new planet and blow off some steam. Hux ran a tight ship - there were some who thought him a martinet.

‘Visiting an acquaintance,’ Hux told him blandly. Perhaps more thrilling than Sorah’s skilled attentions was the challenge of concealing his visit from Ren. Hux had long ago mastered the art of suppressing his uppermost thoughts, a simple trick of willpower quite unconnected to the Force. If Ren wished to probe deeper against Hux’s will, Hux would know about it. Too great a pressure would even damage him.

‘You have _friends_ on Brentaal IV?’ Ren sounded skeptical.

‘I do have a social life,’ said Hux. ‘I’m aware that’s a nebulous concept for you.’ They turned a corner sharply and Hux had to stifle a gasp. Under his perfectly regulation uniform, Hux’s stripes stung him. They chafed against his jodhpurs at every step, bright, raw lines of hurt. Sorah had been particularly vigorous today. Hux was feeling a corresponding sense of vigour; he was very alert, very _alive_ , willing to play with fire by taunting Ren. Ren, who could so easily batter down his mental defenses and pluck out his secret. Hux refused to be ashamed; he was a little ashamed. He tried not to think about it.

‘I can’t imagine-’ began Ren, the doubt sounding strange under the growl of his voice modulators. Hux jumped in, grateful for the distraction.

‘Don’t blame me for your lack of imagination.’ He sped up, despite the pain in his backside, and Ren did a strange, gawky, shuffling step to keep up. Hux had the rest of the day at his leisure; his duties did not resume until 0600 the next morning. He intended to make the most of it. He did not intend to stand around until some lapse in mental focus revealed his secret to Kylo Ren. At the doors to his private quarters he paused, hand lifted to the keypad. ‘Was there something else?’

Ren gave him a look that, from the tilt of his head, could have been considering.

‘No,’ he said eventually, and lumbered off in his usual awkward way. The door slid closed by Hux and he locked it. He turned off the security systems, and double checked the lock on the door, just to be sure.

As always after a visit to Sorah, Hux took the time to admire her good work. He slowly peeled off his uniform and applied a soothing lotion to his thighs and buttocks with an almost reverential care. He turned to view himself in the mirror; pale enhanced by red, glistening with ointment. He slipped into bed nude, each brush against the sheets flaring hot and sore. Face-down, that was best. His pillow was cool on his face.

Hux reached out a hand and touched the data display on the wall, dimming the lights to almost nothing. All he could hear was the quiet hum of the ship and the sound of his breathing against the bed linen. His right hand was damp with lotion when he slid it down under his belly to his cock. One of Sorah’s stripes had landed perilously close to his balls and he felt that now as his cock jerked in his hand. Hux gasped with it, the skin-tight tug of pleasure over his buttocks.

With a deep, shuddering breath (hot and open-mouthed against the covers, pressing his face to them so he had to pant for air, restricted) Hux fucked into his hand. The play of his muscles pulled at his sore skin. He moaned and rolled his hips again. He spread his legs a little. There was only a thin white sheet covering him. It would offer him no modesty at all if someone walked in.

That - that was the thought - always the thought. The threat of exposure. Sorah’s view of him when he was bent over her desk, legs spread. His naked skin under the sheet. His body under his uniform. The secret of speaking to Ren when swathes of his most intimate parts were blood-hot and burning from a caning. Giving a speech to his troops, uniformed and authoritative, while thinking about his next appointment. The persistent lie of his dominance, _what would Father think, getting whipped by a woman_ , the tiny, quiet core of shame in him unblooming like a dark, damp flower, warm and musky and sinful.

Hux cried out into his pillow, a high, desperate sound. It hurt, every thrust and twitch, punishing him for - for anything, or everything, he wasn’t sure which. He couldn’t think any more. His fantasies came unravelled, unspooling into broken images and sounds and smells and there was only his cock and his hand and the pillow making breathing difficult. He jerked himself harder, wet with his own fluid and with lotion, slicker and faster and, and - he came over his hand, into his bed sheets and all over his belly. His pants and whines turned into slower, deeper breaths. He floated in quiet bliss, naked as the day he was born and feeling purified. He felt like a new man.


End file.
